


symphonies in my head

by ShippingEverything



Category: Spring Awakening - Sheik/Sater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deaf Character, M/M, Meet-Cute, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Street Performers, Subways, hard of hearing ernst, wendlas deaf but once again shes barely here, wendlas here too but like for a second
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-28
Updated: 2017-06-28
Packaged: 2018-11-20 01:46:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11326107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippingEverything/pseuds/ShippingEverything
Summary: The people here eat fast, walk fast, talk fast, everything loud and bright and fast enough that, for his first month and a half here, Hanschen had equal amounts of stress headaches from his law classes and tension headaches from the sound and speed. Even the street performers play and dance to and sing quick, upbeat stuff, like there isn’t enough time and they have to rush everything out so people will notice them, as people speedwalk by or dump change and rapidly run away.Except forhim.





	symphonies in my head

**Author's Note:**

> i got an ask on tumblr and i got Inspired. 
> 
> title from jason derulo's "trumpets"
> 
> hanschen is a law school student, ernst is a street violinist. ernst is hoh, hanschen is hearing. where are they?? i honestly dont know. some hellish amalgamation of nyc and new orleans--new orleans if it had half-decent public transit--or maybe boston, though i know barely anything about boston. 
> 
> its just a silly meet-cute fic and i hope yall enjoy it

Nothing ever slows down.

Hanschen isn’t from the city; he grew up in the wealthy part of the suburbs, lazing around his father’s house while his stepmother yelled at him, and in the suburbs it feels like nothing is ever happening. Growing up, life moved like time itself was trapped in a jar of frozen molasses, but since he’s moved everything is so _fast_.

The people here eat fast, walk fast, talk fast. Everything loud and bright and fast enough that, for his first month and a half here, Hanschen had equal amounts of stress headaches from his law classes and tension headaches from the sound and speed. Even the street performers play and sing and dance to quick, upbeat stuff, like there isn’t enough time and they have to rush everything out so people will notice them, as people speedwalk by or dump change and rapidly run away. 

Except for _him_.

There’s a tall, mousy guy who hangs out in the station closest to Hanschen’s school, and he stands there for _hours_ , as far as Hanschen can tell, playing classical song after classical song on his violin. It’s beautiful, even if barely anyone notices it. Some days, Hanschen watches him for half an hour before Hanschen makes himself leave to go home and wash the stress from class away. The violinist plays steady and slow, with his eyes shut, a focused furrow between is brow, and his foot tapping along to keep the beat. He doesn’t seem to care about the money or his audience, just about the music. It’s _fascinating_. 

One day, Hanschen grabs dinner near school with Wendla, a girl from class who’s also from his state but the opposite time, and they spend an hour and a half complaining about city life and law school. 

“I’ll walk you to the station and wait with you,” Wendla signs as they leave the restaurant.

“You really don’t have to,” Hanschen signs, but Wendla shakes her head.

“I’m ubering home,” Wendla signs, “And I wouldn’t want you to have to wait alone.”

Wendla leads the way, and when they get into the station, the street performer is there. Hanschen stops, almost as reflex, and his lack of movement catches Wendla’s eye. 

Her eyes widen when they catch on the street performer, still playing. 

“That’s my friend!” She signs.

“You know him?”

“Yes!” She grabs Hanschen’s hand and goes over to the performer. She taps the performer on the arm and, when he opens his eyes, signs something that Hanschen doesn’t quite follow, probably a name. 

The performer smiles then, slow and bright, and Hanschen feels a bit like a he’s been hit in the chest. 

“Wendla!” The performer signs, “How nice to see you! It’s been so long.”

Wendla nods feverently. “Unfortunately. Luckily, I decided to come in here with my friend, Hanschen, and he stopped because of your music.”

The performer turns to Hanschen. Hanschen says, “Uh, hi.”

The performer frowns a little, then signs, “Sorry, I’m not wearing my hearing aids.”

 _Oh, shit_ , Hanschen thinks. He signs, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“It happens,” The performer shrugs it off. “I play the violin, fairly well I’ve been told, and it’s unexpected.”

“You’re amazing,” Hanschen signs, then, immediately regretting his bluntness as the performer pinkens, “I mean, I stop every day on my way from class to listen to you. You’re really quite good.”

“Thank you,” The performer signs, still looking shocked. “I’m E-R-N-S-T, _Ernst_ , by the way.”

“H-A-N-S-C-H-E-N, _Hanschen_ ,” Hanschen responds, “Wonderful to finally actually meet you.”

Ernst’s mouth twitches into a nervous smile and Hanschen is sure that he’s blushing, still embarrassed by his fumbling introduction. Nothing happens for a moment, leaving them staring at each other in stillness and silence. Then, beside them, Wendla makes a noise in her throat; it draws Hanschen’s attention, whether it was intentional or not. 

“The train,” She signs at Hanschen. “You’ve already missed one, I think, and the next should be here soon.”

“Fuck,” Hanschen says, then signs, “Thank you for telling me.”

“Oh, you have to go?” Ernst signs, actually looking sort of put out. Hanschen can’t help but feel a little regret as well.

“Yes, I have something to do early tomorrow morning so I should probably get home,” He signs, “But I’ll see you, right?”

Ernst nods, then gestures for Hanschen to wait for a moment while he bends down and dig around in a bag at his feet. He stands up with a card in his hand, which he gives to Hanschen. 

“It’s my card,” He signs in response to Hanschen’s clear confusion, “It has my number and email on it, in case you wanted to see me anywhere that’s not a train station.”

Ernst laughs at his own joke, but the slant of his eyebrows and the tension around his mouth show his nervousness. Hanschen smiles. “I’d like that.”

Ernst breaks out into a grin, and Hanschen leaves hearing the swell of a classical song in his head.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so so so much for reading! comment, kudos, and bookmarks fill my cold heart with warmth
> 
> [Main Tumblr (liveinlivingcolor)](http://liveinlivingcolor.tumblr.com/post/162345386235/au-au-au-ernst-is-a-violinist-who-plays-on-the) | [Writing Tumblr (nacreousglowclouds)](http://nacreousglowclouds.tumblr.com/) | [Personal Twitter (@squidias)](http://twitter.com/squidias)


End file.
